When I close my eyes, I see her, my Brazilian miniskirts. She climbs up one of these dunes of white sand of an atlantic paradise; there where the sea takes the colour of the eyes for those who are looking at it.
In the light of rising day, her dark hair takes the aura of a blazing veil. She is stunningly beautiful. Woman of my light, of my days spent in the dark, perfect wife of shade and sun, she is the goddess of my desires, the ultimate kiss of my nights. My first morning sweetness.
She climbs up the dune without difficulty; her delightful legs propel herself towards the top. I can guess the curve, the sharpness of her muscle structure that originates in the fine networks of flesh, muscles and nerves which drains its potency to the binge of her dancing buttocks. Until the hollow of her back.
She sings, she dances, she laughs. She cries with joy or sadness. She throws tantrums, confronts and entices her world with a shameless look that never evades. But when she sleeps; my Brazilian girl in mini skirt, all languid in the hollow of my shoulder, after she came.
In every step she made, the sun rises a bit more, as to see better under the skirt of the one who has come to gaze at the top of the sea.
Accomplice of this voyeurism, a bit of sand cast in every stride glitters on her satiny skin, interferes in the curves of the legs then etiolate as a soft mineral caress encroach the place of greedy hands.
Suddenly, she turns round towards me, shouts something inaudible, made incomprehensible as each time the mass of her curly hair comes to conceal, time of a heartbeat, the delicacy of her angel’s face of womanhood.
Unconcern, she set off again. We could swear that at each step her mini skirt rises a little more towards a reddening sky with a mystery revealed in the sun.
That of, my Brazilian girl without a mini-skirt.
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